I wore my backpack backwards,
so with cleaving textbook corners
and the weight of bologna and a fruit cup,
I was pregnant fleeing the great drone
of the tornado drill tornado.
I lost a shoe in the gleaming hall
and shy Kelly, who played the trombone in music,
rescued it for me, pinching the ribbon.
Safely sheparded into the capsule gymnasium,
we hugged our wooden knees and balloon hearts,
tucked our crystalline brains down
at the place in our bodies where the halves
of future babies stirred and sighed.
The fake tornado felt like my father
when his veins wormed plumper
and his words became spit.
I was banished to my room.
I stood, braced my aching
book weight, and went.
— Leah Sewell